


An Ever-Fixed Mark

by sevenimpossiblethings



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, M/M, Shakespearean Sonnets, lit theory, lots of hot chocolate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:25:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3935071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenimpossiblethings/pseuds/sevenimpossiblethings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is a barista at the student-run coffee shop. Arthur can’t have caffeine. </p>
<p>(Also: Ariadne is a feminist; Nash is a terrible project partner; Dom is an awful friend; Robert wears YSL; and Yusuf gets stuck behind Arthur in line.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand, thousand thank-yous to my beta, castillon02, who is absolutely phenomenal, pushed me to think more deeply about character motivation, frowned at my incessant run-ons, and basically was incredibly nice about me needing my hand held through certain bits of dialogue. Thank you for all of your encouragement. (I am sending you a virtual French silk pie.) 
> 
> Thank you to everyone on tumblr who graciously endured incessant posts over the past month and a half about “the lit theory Shakespeare coffee shop college au.” Here goes!
> 
> I also feel vaguely obligated to thank my lit theory professor, who turned a class I didn’t even want to be in into my favorite course. This fic definitely wouldn’t exist without her. 
> 
> Much love, as ever, to Aranel, who climbs things with me and lets me steal things from her life without her permission. I hope I haven't screwed this one up too badly. 
> 
> The title comes from Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116. 
> 
> Finally, I feel obligated to note that a character has a heart condition. It's not a big focus of the story and there's nothing remotely graphic, but it does come up.

It’s ten o’clock on a Tuesday night, and Arthur is standing in line at the student-run coffee shop. 

Even though he can’t have coffee. 

He knows most people would simply think he’s the kind of hipster who’s into, he doesn’t even know, organic fair-trade tea or something, but mild tachycardia is the true barrier between him and caffeine in all forms. But fuck heart conditions and fuck legal stimulants, he’s a junior and still has a 4.0 and now it’s a source of pride. He knows, technically, there are non-caffeinated versions of coffee and tea, but honestly—

Honestly, there is a teeny-tiny part of Arthur that is still five years old and apparently this part of him comes out on Tuesday nights in the beginning of October when he is faced with the fact that it is the _beginning_ of October and there is already a dusting of snow on the ground because fucking Midwest and the pothead in the room across the hall wasn’t even trying to be subtle and Arthur had just needed to get _out_. 

Finally—were there really that many people dying for a mocha?—he reaches the counter. 

“What can I get for you, sweetheart?” 

Arthur blinks. 

For a second, he can’t even look at the speaker, just replays the words in his head, _What can I get for you, sweetheart_ , that _voice_ , all male and British and what the fuck? Sweetheart? Arthur knows he looks young for his age, but he’s not _actually_ five. 

Although, his order might contradict that assertion. 

“Um, a hot chocolate, please,” Arthur says, and finally looks at the barista. 

And, okay, Arthur has always asserted that he doesn’t have a _type_ because that’s just so shallow and stereotypical, but damn—because the barista is a beautiful mess of contradictions. He’s broad, muscled, but there’s something delicate about his lips and the way his fingers flip the sharpie as he waits for Arthur to—say something else. But what else is there to say? It’s a hot chocolate, not a caramel frappuccino with five shots of espresso, or whatever one could order these days. 

( _These days_ , Arthur thinks, half-hysterically. He’s twenty going on two hundred.) 

“White chocolate? Mexican?” prompts British Barista. 

“Um, don’t you guys have, like, normal hot chocolate?” Arthur asks. 

“Of course!” British Barista beams. ( _Five times fast_ , Arthur thinks.) “I just thought you might like to switch things up a bit, love. Does wonders for the soul.” 

Arthur stares at him. 

_Wonders for the soul?_

Was this a conversation that was actually happening? 

Does he look like the kind of person whose soul needs wonders, via abnormal hot chocolate?

(Oh my God, he is the most pathetic person on the _planet_.) 

“Just a normal hot chocolate, please,” Arthur says, firmly. 

“Sure thing!” says British Barista. “Here or to go?” 

Arthur glances to the seating area to the left. It’s packed. Even the low platform—presumably meant for open mics and the talent shows put on by the high school programs that rent out the dorms during the summer—is covered with people sitting crossed-legged, books on their knees. 

“To go.” The _definitely_ is implied. 

British Barista pretends to pout as he picks up a paper cup, then pauses. 

“Medium or large?” 

“You don’t have a small?” Arthur asks. He’s not really here for the hot chocolate, after all. He’s here to not be in his room (even though he’s not actually going to stay in this stupidly crowded place). 

“Hot chocolate only comes in medium or large,” explains British Barista.

“Read the sign,” the person behind Arthur complains. 

“Right. Sorry,” says Arthur. "Medium, please."

“No big deal,” says British Barista. “Milk preference?”

“Oh my God,” says Arthur. 

“We have soy, almond, non-fat, and two percent.” 

“Non-fat.” 

“So that’ll be a medium, non-fat hot chocolate to go.” The barista scrawls something on the paper cup and sets in on the counter. 

“Yes,” says Arthur, sighing with relief. 

“Anything else? A bagel? A muffin? We’re out of chocolate, but the blueberry is passable.” 

“Just the hot chocolate, please.” 

The boy (man? But ‘man’ seems so _old_. Like, Arthur’s _academic advisor_ is a man. Arthur isn’t so sure about the odd transplant in front of him.) turns to the register. 

“Dining Dollars, or—” he asks. Arthur cuts him off.

“Dining Dollars, yes, please,” he says, and thrusts his student ID out. 

The barista swipes the card and hands it back to him. 

“Have a lovely evening, Arthur,” he purrs. “Come back to us soon!” 

Arthur steps away from the counter to wait for his drink. There are only two staff members on duty, and there are four drinks ahead of Arthur’s ill-advised hot chocolate.

“Fucking finally,” says the guy behind Arthur. 

“Sorry,” says Arthur. 

He almost adds, _it’s my first time_ , but, one, who the hell makes their first trip to the second-most popular study location on campus as a junior, and two, who the hell doesn’t know how to order a drink at a coffee shop? They’re pretty much interchangeable, no matter what Starbucks and Caribou want you to believe. 

After a few minutes, the other barista shouts, “Medium non-fat hot chocolate to go!”

Arthur pretends like he doesn’t feel like a kindergartener as he retrieves the steaming cup. 

On the side of the cup, written in all capital letters, is DARLING. 

As Arthur fights his way out of the building, he thinks, _I am never coming back here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm consultingreaders on tumblr—come say hi and weep over Johnlock with me.


	2. Chapter 2

On Thursday afternoon, his design partner wants to meet at the coffeehouse to discuss their project. 

Arthur wants to ask why they can’t meet, oh, literally anywhere else on campus, but he doesn’t want to start the project off on the wrong foot. 

Thankfully, the line is much shorter today. 

Unfortunately, British Barista (Buff British Barista, Arthur’s brain corrects helpfully) is there again. 

“Arthur! Darling!” he says happily. “And who’s this?” 

“Do you know each other?” Arthur’s partner asks. 

“No,” says Arthur. 

“Ten-oh-seven on Tuesday night, medium non-fat hot chocolate to go, _no_ pastry, more’s the pity, very cute sweater and a look that implied he was both completely overwhelmed by the madhouse that is the Loft at ten-oh-seven on Tuesdays yet also completely _above_ the madhouse that is the Loft at ten-oh-seven on Tuesdays.” 

Arthur stares.

After a moment, he remembers to breathe. 

Arthur’s partner gives an uncertain laugh. 

Arthur swallows. 

“This is Nash. We’re project partners,” says Arthur, as if introducing his design partner to a barista he has literally seen once in his life isn’t the strangest thing ever. 

“Welcome to the Loft!” British Barista chirps. 

“Eames, stop flirting and ask them what they want,” says a slender girl with brown hair, who has appeared magically at Arthur’s side. 

Arthur glances at her, confused, because she’s not wearing the employee apron, so she doesn’t even work here (or maybe she’s just not on shift now?), and she’s still telling off British Boy—Eames, oh my God, he has a name, but what the fuck kind of name is Eames?—for flirting. 

“We’re not fl—we’re not,” says Arthur. “Eames here was displaying his freakish stalker memory.”

Eames does that thing again where he pretends to pout.

Arthur does his best to look very unimpressed. 

The girl laughs. 

“The Loft is a dumb name, anyway,” says Arthur, because Eames still hasn’t asked them for their order. “We’re on the ground floor.” 

“We switched locations in 1983,” says Eames. “It used to make sense.” 

“Chai for here!” the other barista calls out, then glares at Eames. 

“Right, yes, what can I get for you lads?” Eames asks, grinning widely in a way Arthur assumes is supposed to be charming. Arthur narrows his eyes. 

Nash orders something stupid that Arthur doesn’t bother to pay attention to. 

“Can I tempt you with Mexican hot chocolate this time?” Eames asks, turning to Arthur. 

“No,” says Arthur, flatly. He winces. That was probably uncalled for. That was probably way ruder than Eames deserved. “Just, um, the same. Which you clearly remember. Except for here.” 

Because he and Nash are supposed to get actual _work_ done while Eames—and his muscles, and his stupid British accent, which is in no way charming, not even a little bit—flirted with everything that breathed. Or not flirted. Or—anyway. Right. 

“The dishwasher’s broken, so we’ve only got to-go cups anyway,” says Eames. 

Five minutes later, Nash and Arthur snag the last available table, one that is as far as possible away from the counter. Arthur wonders if everyone else—the regulars—picks the tables closest to the counter so they can be closer to Eames. 

_Moths, flame. Magnetism_ , Arthur thinks distractedly. 

“Um, Arthur?” Nash asks. 

Arthur looks up from his folder, from which he was attempting to extract the project handout. 

“Yeah?”

“Why is your drink labeled ‘pumpkin?’” 

 

Arthur doesn’t mean to learn Eames’s shifts.

He really, really doesn’t. 

He just… drops by the Loft a bit over the next couple of weeks. Not obsessively, or anything.

It’s just.

The dining hall hot chocolate is _shit_ and it keeps getting colder and Arthur gets cold easily and that’s not a weakness, okay? Sometimes you just need a warm drink to keep you going.

Especially the closing shift on Tuesdays, mid- to late-afternoon on Thursdays, and late Saturday mornings. 

Yes, especially those times. 

It’s a good thing he never got in the habit of using his Dining Dollars for actual sustenance.

 

On Monday, he gets an email from Dom. 

It’s not the first email he’s gotten from Dom since he and Mal graduated in May. It’s not even the first email he’s gotten from Dom this semester. It’s not like Dom and Mal have cut off all contact and completely vanished off the face of the earth. Arthur’s even Skyped them occasionally—okay, once, in July—but anyway. 

He gets an email from Dom. 

Dom wants the notes for a project he and Arthur did together the year before. 

Dom, of course, didn’t keep the notes. Or he probably kept them, but they were lost amidst the mess that was _Dom_. 

Dom also says that Mal is still deciding what to do—fashion photographer? Designer? Actress?—now that she’s fulfilled her father’s requirement of getting a degree in architecture. He says he wants to ask her to marry him in the spring or summer, when he’s saved up enough to buy them tickets to Paris. He says he’s really busy with his job, but it’s clearly what he was born to do. He says he’s sure he can convince his boss to hire Arthur once he graduates—maybe even before then, if Arthur’s interested. 

Dom says he hopes Arthur is doing well.

Arthur emails him back with the documents as soon as he’s out of class. 

On Tuesday, Arthur checks his email every four minutes, waiting for a response, his stomach doing these weird nervous flips because Dom is out there in the _real world_ , where Arthur wants to be, and Arthur is being _helpful_ and that’s all Arthur wants to do—be useful. Be valued. 

At 9:37 that night, Dom sends a one-word reply: _Thanks!_

Arthur’s stomach clenches, hard, and he gets that feeling where he wants to crawl out of his own skin and he needs to get _out_. 

He tugs on a jacket and shoves his student ID in his pocket. He doesn’t bother to bring his phone as he heads for the Loft. 

“Dearest, I’ve missed you!” says Eames as soon as Arthur’s pushed open the door. 

Arthur lets the door swing shut behind him, but he pauses, looking at Eames and Eames’s easy smile and letting the careless echo of _I’ve missed you_ bounce through his head a few more times, and he takes a deep breath. 

It feels like the first one he’s taken all day.

Maybe all semester. 

(Maybe his whole life.) 

“You look like you need a little something extra today,” Eames says, once Arthur has managed to move away from the door. 

“Hm?” says Arthur. 

“Can I tempt you with a shot of espresso in your cocoa?” ask Eames. 

Arthur shakes his head violently. “Absolutely not.” 

Eames looks at him strangely. “You know there’s no actual moral high ground to be gained by never consuming caffeinated beverages, right? It’s not going to kill you.” 

“Actually,” Arthur says. He laughs, a little, but it’s short and bitter and not really a laugh at all. “I have tachycardia. I’m not allowed to have anything more than trace amounts of caffeine.” 

Arthur doesn’t usually just go around _telling_ people that he has a heart condition. It’s not a big deal. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it doesn’t interfere with his life, and he more or less forgets about it, and it’s totally and completely fine and none of anybody else’s business and he’s not _fragile_. (Although it really was Dom’s business when Arthur had been drunk and Dom had decided a Red Bull would be the perfect follow-up drink for Arthur even though Dom _knew_ about the tachycardia.) 

Eames’s face has gone pale. 

“Oh my god. Darling,” he says. “I’m so—I didn’t… I would never just add something to your drink without asking you first, you know that?” 

“It’s really fine,” says Arthur. “Just, you know. Well. Now you know.” 

“Thank you for telling me,” says Eames, his tone serious. But he brightens after a second, adding, “And I want you to know I am restraining myself from all heart-related puns. Consider yourself safe.” 

Arthur considers the kind of terrible heart-related puns Eames was likely to make. 

“You’ll have to make up for this restraint by making even more of all the other kinds,” says Arthur, and then Eames is grinning at him and rattling off a list of innuendos he’s clearly been saving up since Saturday, and Arthur feels—

Yes, Arthur feels _safe_. 

 

“Because I know you’re not reading the signs, we’re having a Halloween party on Friday, and you should come,” announces Eames as soon as Arthur opens the door. 

“We?” asks Arthur. 

Eames waves a hand. “The Loft. It’ll be fun! Ariadne is going to decorate and everything.”

“And what are you going to do?” counters Arthur, instead of asking which of Eames’s shift partners is Ariadne, because he’s not invested in the details of this coffeehouse, nope, not even a little.

“Seduce the masses with my roguish charm,” says Eames. With a wink. 

“Right,” says Arthur, as the door opens behind him to admit another customer. Now he’s definitely not coming.

“ _Please_ ,” Eames whines. “I promise there will be hot chocolate.” 

Arthur laughs. “That’s how you’re going to bribe me to come to a party?”

“You haven’t given me much else to work with, darling,” Eames complains. “Come anyway.”

Behind Arthur, someone—a regular, because Arthur recognizes his messy brown curls and collared striped shirt—coughs. “Could you just agree to go so I can get my coffee? Some of us have actual caffeine needs.”

“Fine,” says Arthur, stepping to the side so the other student can (finally) move up.

Five minutes later, just as Arthur is pulling open the door, hot chocolate (“DEAREST”) in hand, Eames calls after him, “Don’t forget to dress up! Costumes are obligatory!” 

So Arthur, who has never in his life had a good Halloween costume, does what any self-respecting college student with an irrational need to impress would do: he calls his little sister. 

“You own a bowtie, right?” she asks, once his dilemma has been explained—minus Eames, of course. 

“Yes,” says Arthur, not bothering to be defensive, because this is his sister and she has literally grown up watching his younger self’s questionable, ‘daring’ fashion choices. 

“Excellent,” she replies. 

 

On Friday evening, Arthur spends rather longer than usual doing his hair, mostly because he’s very practiced at taming his hair and thus can do it quickly, but copying Matt Smith’s floppy look takes a little more trial-and-error. Still, it’s time well spent, and Arthur feels irrationally proud of the result. 

He’s not actually a big Doctor Who fan, but his sister is, and she made him watch a ridiculous number of seasons with her over the summer, so it’s not like he’s dressed up as some character he knows nothing about (even if he’d kind of prefer if he knew nothing about the Doctor, in his dozen-plus incarnations). On the practical side, selecting the Eleventh Doctor means he can wear a suit jacket, the result of which is that he isn’t quite as freezing as everyone who chose some costume that didn’t mandate or at least allow for layering. 

Light and noise—a heady mix of music and laughter and useless attempts at conversation—are spilling out of the Loft as Arthur approaches. He straightens his bowtie and checks his hair one last time in the window before pulling open the door. 

There’s a mass of people inside, far more than Arthur would have expected for a party at a _coffeehouse_ , but he has clearly never understood the unique place the Loft holds in the hearts (mouths? Stomachs?) of his fellow students. 

He quickly spots a few of the Loft regulars, the ones who are generally present for at least one of Eames’s shifts. One of them—a preppy underclassman whose fashion taste veers wildly between eco-warrior grunge and Paris Fashion Week depending on his mood—is dressed as Batman. Arthur jerks his head in greeting but doesn’t stop to chat: Eames invited him, and Arthur is damn well going to prove that he showed up. 

“…Arthur,” someone slurs, and Arthur turns instinctively, even though he doesn’t recognize the voice, and suddenly it becomes clear that the drunk individual’s attempts at hailing were not, in fact, directed toward Arthur… but rather toward Eames.

Who is wearing a red t-shirt with the Pendragon crest emblazoned in gold across the chest, not to mention a cape and a fucking crown. 

“Arthur!” Eames calls over the heads of about half a dozen people, through which he immediately and inexplicably begins to push. 

When Eames bursts through the small cluster, Arthur is able to get a good look at the rest of Eames’s costume, which includes _very tight_ pants and a makeshift scabbard with an actual sword.

Well, probably not an actual sword, but a really nice wooden version, anyway. 

“Your Majesty,” replies Arthur, raising an eyebrow. 

Eames throws back his head (without displacing his crown) and laughs, showing off the long line of his throat, and Jesus Christ, Arthur would definitely mess with time and space in order to replay that moment. 

“Fancy meeting you here, Doctor,” says Eames. 

“The two of you are like a bloody BBC ad,” complains the slender brunette who seems to hang around the Loft nearly as much as Arthur. 

The girl is wearing a brown skirt suit, complete with a tie, and Arthur is just a tad confused, until Eames says, “Agent Carter, how good of you to join us.” 

She dips a slight curtsey and holds out her hand for Arthur to shake. “Ariadne,” she says. Her grip is cool and firm. 

“Arthur,” Arthur replies. 

“Now we’re all friends!” Eames proclaims happily. “Let’s go find you something to drink.” 

After supplying Arthur with hot chocolate, though, Eames becomes swept up in a debate with people Arthur doesn’t know. They’re contesting some point about Oscar Wilde that Arthur doesn’t care to follow and Arthur doesn’t stay much longer than that. 

He doesn’t mind, though. 

His costume received a bunch of compliments and he’d gotten to speak with Eames for at least five minutes and Ariadne’s decorations—all fake cobwebs and dark purple streamers—were nice, and if there’s one thing Arthur has learned after over two years at college, it’s when to leave a party before it sours on him. 

So he leaves when he’s still content with his decision to come, with his bowtie and his (at this point) decidedly less-styled hair. 

All in all, not a bad Halloween. 

 

“Peach!” Eames cries one Thursday as Arthur enters the Loft. 

_Stupid name_ , he reminds himself, because he thinks he’s let Halloween get to his head and he’s determined to push out the memories of Eames’s ridiculous costume. 

Arthur looks at Eames. “I’m eating a mandarin,” he says flatly. 

Then Arthur remembers that he is actually eating mandarin wedges out of a plastic baggie because he’d wanted to eat it on the way over and pre-peeling it had seemed like a good idea and he is five and also clearly not even from this planet. 

Eames shrugs. 

Arthur was not previously aware the degree to which a shrug could show off one’s shoulders, but Eames’s shirt was _tight_ and—Arthur, on reflex, begins to babble. 

“You should probably call me, you know, more chocolate-y names. Because—”

“—you order hot chocolate, yes, we all know that,” says Ariadne, to whom Arthur had been introduced weeks ago ( _weeks_ ago?!) and who did, in fact, work at the Loft, although she and Eames only had a shared shift on Thursdays. 

“But fruit is sweet, too, sweetling,” Eames says. “Fructose, glucose, sucrose… haven’t you ever taken a nutrition class, sugar?” 

“I’m an _architecture_ major,” Arthur whines. 

“We know,” says Ariadne, who’s not even giving them her full attention as she fiddles with the iPod that’s plugged into the Loft’s sound system. 

“Theatre major, fine arts minor, thank you for asking,” says Eames.

“Why am I not surprised?” says Arthur. 

Arthur feels a rush of cold air hit him as the door behind him opens.

“Hey, Arthur. Hey, Eames,” says Robert, dusting approximately three snowflakes from the shoulders of his Burberry coat. 

Arthur doesn’t actually know Robert. 

Or, he knows Robert the way he knows Ariadne, the way he knows Yusuf and Peter—they’re all regulars who end up getting stuck behind him as Eames manages to make ordering his hot chocolate this whole, like, _affair_ , even though Eames has had his order memorized from the start. 

Robert is a Thursday afternoon regular; Yusuf, Saturday morning; Peter, Tuesday night. 

Arthur wishes his social life weren’t mainly composed of the witnesses to his and Eames’s… Arthur doesn’t even know… interactions. 

( _This is what you get for becoming best friends with people two years older than you_ , Arthur reminds himself. But fuck Dom, fuck Mal… fuck everybody who got to _leave_ , leave Arthur.) 

“Hi, Ariadne, how long have they been at it? Should I grab a table and come back?” Robert calls. 

Arthur tries not to die. Although—reverse that, no, he definitely tries to die. Or sink into the floor. Or evaporate. Or spontaneously combust. Or just be anywhere, literally anywhere, but here, where Eames is _grinning_ at him, eyes dancing, and Robert is casually asking about this… _thing_ … that Eames imposes on them. 

“Nah, we’re good,” says Eames. 

Arthur silently passes him his student ID card, and then Eames moves away to make the drink.

Technically, one barista is supposed to run the register while the other(s)—depending on whether the shift has been deemed ‘peak’ or not—make the drinks. But it has been weeks since Eames has let anyone make Arthur’s hot chocolate, even when he’s on register. 

Arthur wonders if he is being slowly poisoned. 

As he sits in class twenty minutes later, he tries not to smile when he looks at the DEWDROP Eames has scrawled across his cup. 

(If he does smile, well. The hot chocolate is just really, really good.)


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur and Nash have a huge deadline to meet for their project tomorrow and Nash is doing fuck-all to help and Arthur has been working on this by himself for _hours_ and—

Arthur looks at the clock.

It’s 11:40pm. 

11:40pm on a _Tuesday_ and shit, he’s missed almost all of Eames’s shift. 

_Eames doesn’t really care if you show up or not_ , Arthur tells himself. 

But he’s shoving his feet into his sneakers and dashing out of his room, coat in hand. 

Arthur sprints to the Loft, thankful that he ran cross-country in high school, thankful that he still goes running a few times a week, thankful that his tachycardia isn’t acting up even though he didn’t exactly have time for a proper warm-up before rushing across campus, thankful that he didn’t take up smoking with Dom and Mal. (Also, fuck them.) 

It’s 11:47 when he bursts into the coffeehouse, breathless and sweating beneath his coat. His ears, though—his ears are fucking frozen. 

“Arthur, darling!” Eames says immediately, smiling so broadly, so brightly, that Arthur wonders how on earth somebody could react to his mere _presence_ like they had won the fucking lottery. He hasn’t even done his hair today, for Christ’s sake, so it’s kind of floppy and curly and basically unacceptable. 

“Hi,” Arthur pants. 

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Eames says. 

“We were all very worried,” says Peter solemnly, standing up from his table near the counter and stepping toward them. He hands Eames his empty mug; Eames passes him back his student ID card without looking away from Arthur. 

“Nash. Project,” Arthur says, like that means something, and the crazy thing is, it does.

It’s kind of amazing how much you can learn about a person in five-minute bursts three times a week. 

“Darling,” Eames says sympathetically, and pushes a steaming cup toward him.

Arthur blinks. 

“What?”

“You missed last call,” Eames explains. 

Last call is 11:45. 

“Oh,” says Arthur, when what he really wants to say is, _thank you for trusting that I would come. Thank you for believing in me._

(Like making it to the coffeehouse is some important accomplishment.) 

“Um,” says Arthur, and pulls out his student ID card.

Eames waves it off. “I’ve got you.”

Arthur frowns. “But—” 

“It’s _fine_ , Arthur,” Eames insists. “Take your hot chocolate.”

Arthur takes the cup, cradles it between both hands. He’s not sure what he’s doing there, standing in front of the counter, silent. He wants to… he wants. Something. 

“Go finish your project,” Eames says, his voice gentle. 

“It’s not the whole project, it’s just this sub-deadline,” Arthur corrects, automatically.

“Arthur. I know,” says Eames, because of course Eames knows. 

“Yes,” says Arthur, still not moving. Peter has gone back to his table. 

“Arthur,” Eames repeats. Arthur meets his eyes. “I’ll see you on Thursday?”

For the first time all day, Arthur smiles. 

 

It’s Thursday afternoon, less than two days after Arthur had nearly missed Eames’s shift. He’s still not thinking about _why_ that would have been so tragic. It’s not as if his routine is, like, a lecture. Or. A date. 

Anyway. 

It’s Thursday afternoon, and Arthur has slept very, very little since he last saw Eames. 

First there was the design project due the day before. 

Then there was the paper due today. 

The paper is done. It’s even decent—more than decent, probably, if Arthur’s being honest.

It’s just that he stayed up until six a.m. writing the stupid thing and then had class, and he technically could have napped longer before his afternoon class if he hadn’t wanted to miss Eames’s shift, and when did seeing Eames become better than another half an hour of sleep? 

At the Loft, there’s a line, which isn’t as uncommon as you would think for Thursday afternoons. 

Arthur closes his eyes, flicking them open every ten seconds to see if he needs to shuffle forward yet. 

“Darling,” Eames sighs, when Arthur finally reaches the front. 

“Hi,” Arthur mumbles. 

He probably shouldn’t have come, because he’s barely slept in three days and he probably looks like shit—

“I should probably be telling you to get more sleep, but honestly, sugar plum, you’re looking unfairly adorable right now,” Eames says earnestly. 

Arthur looks at him. 

“I slept for three hours,” he says. 

“You’re wearing _glasses_ ,” Eames replies, gleeful. 

“I couldn’t get my contacts in,” Arthur says. 

“Please never put your contacts in again,” says Eames. “I mean, you’re very attractive with contacts, too, but—well, if you need to fight off hoards of admirers today, you know where to find me.”

Arthur tries to blink at him, but his eyes get stuck closed and he rubs them fiercely. (Oh my God, is it even possible to fiercely rub your eyes? He probably looks like a three-year-old, which is even worse than usual.)

“No, actually,” says Arthur. “You’re only here until four.” 

Eames smiles, his eyes crinkling with delight. 

Arthur rolls his eyes. “You know that I know your schedule.” 

“We all know that you know his schedule,” says Robert. 

“Hi, Robert,” says Arthur, not even turning around, because frankly that seems like too much effort at this point. 

“Let me make you your chocolate, love,” says Eames. 

Arthur passes his card to Eames, then moves to the side and puts his head down on the counter. The position isn’t even comfortable, but fuck. He is really too tired for this. 

A few minutes later, there is a hand on his head. Fingers, gently running through his hair. His brain—barely functioning as it is—stutters to a complete stop. 

He does not know into what alternate reality he has been thrust, but if those fingers—those fingers—could just keep going, please? That would be acceptable. More than acceptable. 

“Arthur,” a voice whispers, and the hand is withdrawn.

Arthur may or may not let out a noise of protest that may or not may not resemble a whimper. 

He looks up. 

Eames has come around the counter and is standing next to him, holding a cup in one hand and a small brown bag in the other. He holds both out for Arthur. 

Arthur takes the hot chocolate but frowns at the bag. 

“Banana muffin,” says Eames.

Arthur stares at it a moment longer.

“When was the last time you ate, and when were you next planning on eating?” Eames sighs. 

“Um?” Arthur answers. He’ll probably go to dinner, if he doesn’t decide it’s too much effort. 

“Right, so, banana muffin.” Eames thrusts the bag into his other hand, and Arthur clutches it instinctively. 

“But—” begins Arthur.

“I put it on your card,” Eames says. 

“Oh,” says Arthur. “Thank you.” 

Eames laughs. “Only you would thank me for charging you for a muffin you didn’t even order.” 

“Thank you,” Arthur repeats, then, because he is an _idiot_ , “You touched my head. I mean, that was you, wasn’t it? Not, like, Robert?”

“I would never touch your head,” Robert asserts. 

“I would never let Robert touch your head, pet,” says Eames, just as seriously.

Arthur looks between them. It is possible he is still asleep, right? And he has woken up in a dream in which Eames would actually _touch_ him? 

“You need to leave or you’ll be late to class, darling.” 

“I can’t believe you’re kicking me out,” Arthur says. 

“You’ll be mad at me if you’re late,” says Eames.

This is true. 

“I hate you,” says Arthur. “I’m so tired.” 

“Enjoy your hot chocolate. Eat your muffin,” says Eames, and places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, steering him toward the door. 

A warm, solid hand, possibly the same one that had been _in his hair_. 

“You’re seriously kicking me out,” Arthur whines. 

“Love, you are far too distracting when you’re this tired,” laughs Eames, and opens the door. 

Fuck. Cold. 

Arthur is not late to class.

The banana muffin is, in fact, pretty good. 

And if Arthur can’t be bothered to put his contacts in on Saturday morning, well. He’s always liked his glasses. 

 

Arthur goes home for Thanksgiving. 

He puts on old high school t-shirts (math team, cross country) and helps his mom and little sister bake. 

He doesn’t think about Eames, especially not when they're debating the merits of apple cider or divvying up who is going to make which pie. He doesn’t wonder what Eames would make of his decision to take the pumpkin and leave the French silk for his sister. 

He doesn’t know what sort of puns Thanksgiving would inspire, but he assumes Eames has a list. 

His sister thinks he’s crazy, because he keeps looking at things—his twelfth grade final art project, which is embarrassingly still on the wall, the coat of one of the reporters covering the Macy’s Day Parade—and grinning, thinking about the conversations he and Eames could have about them. (In some alternate reality in which they were together for Thanksgiving. Ha.) 

He definitely doesn’t miss Eames, or his horrible shirts that are only partially obscured by the employee apron, or the ridiculous pet names, or the terrible puns. 

“You seem happy,” his mom says over leftovers on Saturday. 

“You sound surprised,” says Arthur.

His mom shrugs. “With Dom and Mal graduated… I worried.” 

“I’m fine,” Arthur says, then adds, quickly, “I’m good. Really.” 

“Is there anyone… I should know about?” she asks, a small smile on her lips. 

Arthur shakes his head. “No one.”


	4. Chapter 4

The week before finals, Arthur starts studying at the Loft. Even when Eames isn’t on shift, because for Arthur the whole space is just inherently Eames-infused and that makes him breathe a little better and he fucking hates his room but he hates the library even more than he hates his room and somehow the Loft has become his best option. 

He brings his noise-cancelling headphones and refuses to order anything when Eames isn’t working. 

The thing about being at the Loft when Eames is not at the Loft is that Arthur picks up on how the Loft _actually_ functions. 

Like, Eames always writes stuff on Arthur’s cups, right? Like ‘darling’ or ‘sugar plum’ or ‘dearest.’ Arthur had assumed this was because baristas were supposed to ask for people’s names.

But none of the other baristas call out names, even ridiculous ones like ‘pumpkin.’ They just shout out orders. 

And maybe, technically Arthur already knew this, because that’s what Eames’s shift partners do, too, but he never paid it that much attention because, honestly, when he’s waiting for his hot chocolate, his attention is all on Eames. Which is kind of worrying, if you think about it. (Arthur is definitely not thinking about it.) 

The other thing about studying at the Loft is that sometimes Eames _is_ on shift. 

On Thursday afternoon, Arthur braces himself to witness Eames _flirting with other people_ , which is definitely not allowed and Arthur should speak to Ariadne about adding this prohibition to the Community Guidelines posted in the study area. He tries not to be obvious about looking at the other customers’ to-go cups. Not like he cares what Eames writes on them, or anything.

Except Eames doesn’t write on other people’s to-go cups.

Or, he does, but stuff like, “NF HC +SC,” barista code, not the pet names Arthur’s stuck with. 

(He’s stuck with them, definitely. He doesn’t… he doesn’t like them, of course, they’re absurd and all the rest, but that doesn’t mean _other_ people should also be the beneficiaries of Eames’s ridiculousness.) 

Eames doesn’t shout ‘darling’ when other people walk in. He doesn’t call them ‘pumpkin’ as he swipes their ID cards. He doesn’t thrust banana muffins into the hands of the deserving. 

Arthur does not spend all of Eames’s shift analyzing this sudden behavioral shift toward normalcy. 

At four, there are fingers in his hair. 

Arthur jumps in his chair, twisting.

It’s Eames, out of his work apron for once. (His brief stint as King Arthur does not count.) His shirt is _atrocious_ , but—fuck, he’s hot. 

_Fit_ , Arthur revises, because Eames has been teaching him British English. Which is just about the hottest thing ever. 

“I’m off,” says Eames. 

“Yes,” says Arthur. He’s not sure what else there is to say. 

Eames looks at him for a moment longer. 

“You were very distracting, pet,” he says eventually. 

“I’m wearing contacts today,” says Arthur defensively. 

“I noticed.” 

It’s the first conversation they’ve had that does not, at least in some perfunctory way, revolve around hot chocolate. (Even their conversation at the Halloween party had ended with hot chocolate, which is pretty pathetic, if Arthur lets himself think about it.) 

“Study hard, darling,” Eames says, and runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair instead of saying good-bye. 

The girl sharing Arthur’s table doesn’t even pretend not to stare.

“Your boyfriend’s cute,” she says.

“We’re not together,” Arthur says quickly.

She raises her eyebrows. “Right. Because what happened just a second ago was super, like, platonic.” 

“Guys can show… um, affection, without it being indicative of. Anything else,” Arthur mutters. 

“Yeah. I’m an FGSS major, so, I know,” says the girl. “Fuck the patriarchy.” 

It takes Arthur’s Eames-foggy brain far too long to translate the acronym into English: Feminist, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. There had been some whole big _thing_ about the name change during Arthur’s freshman year. 

“Yeah,” says Arthur, wondering if he can get back to studying now. 

“But sometimes, it’s actually just because you’re in love.” 

“Wha-at?” Arthur chokes out. 

The girl gives him a concerned look, all creased eyebrows and downturned lips. “If you’re not out yet, you may want to tell him to tone it down a bit in public, that’s all.” 

“ _What_?” Arthur yelps. 

“Have you ever been to the Queer Resource Center?” the girl asks, and suddenly this conversation is making a lot more sense.

“I’m gay,” Arthur says, calmly. “I’ve never really ever been in the closet, even.” 

“Okay…” says the girl.

Arthur does not know how he started discussing his sexuality with, literally, a random girl who just happened to need a place to sit during hell week. 

(Where is Ariadne when you need her?)

(Not that Arthur is up for discussing his romantic life with Ariadne. Not even close.) 

“We’re not together,” Arthur insists. He turns a page of his notes. 

“Well, maybe you should be. Because he’s clearly crazy for you,” says the girl.

Arthur doesn’t even know that Eames is gay. Or like, bisexual or something. It took him weeks to figure out that Eames and Ariadne weren’t dating. When he had stuttered through some sentence that implied they were in a relationship, Ariadne had laughed and laughed. 

(“You think I would let my boyfriend go around calling some other guy ‘love’ and ‘darling?’ Please. And also, uh, no way. Eames is my best friend, but _no way_.”)

“No,” Arthur denies. “That’s just. How he is. Crazy.” 

The girl makes a noncommittal noise, but thankfully lets him get back to work.

It is the least productive afternoon Arthur has ever had. 

 

It’s Tuesday night. Arthur comes to the Loft right after his evening final (and fuck whoever decided to schedule those, seriously), riding an adrenaline high. 

When he pulls open the door, though, Eames’s face falls.

Just—falls, and Arthur had felt on top of the fucking world because he _knows_ he just aced that final and now Eames doesn’t even want him here? 

Arthur wants to turn around and walk back into the cold before he even has to speak to Eames, before he has to pretend like he’s dying for a hot chocolate even though he _is_ , it’s like some Pavlovian response or something, when Eames’s voice stops him. 

“We’re out of chocolate,” Eames says, so apologetically he might as well have told Arthur that the whole fucking universe was out of chocolate, forever and ever. 

Arthur blinks, but because it doesn’t seem like Eames hates him, finishes walking up to the counter.

“What?” he says. 

“We’re out of chocolate, love. End of semester and everything,” says Eames.

“Uh, okay,” says Arthur. “What about, um, white chocolate?” 

Eames’s eyes light up for a second, but he shakes his head. “No chocolate of any kind. Although if I had known a shortage would get you to branch out a bit, I would have sabotaged the milk chocolate supply ages ago.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur says, but, _fuck_ , his voice is _fond_. 

“If only, darling,” says Eames, and Arthur doesn’t even blush anymore. 

“So I walked out here in the cold and there’s not even any kind of hot chocolate here?” Arthur says.

“I’m really sorry. I tried to get them to hold some back for you, but—” 

And Eames is so earnest, so earnestly _sorry_ about this ridiculous lack of chocolate that Arthur laughs. 

Eames frowns. “I really did, Arthur, I swear.”

“I believe you,” Arthur says. “You’re ridiculous. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, it didn’t work.”

“You didn’t even have to _try_. You’re under no obligation to go to special lengths to feed my hot chocolate addiction.” 

Eames smiles a little at that. “I would, though.” 

“I appreciate it,” says Arthur. 

“I am going to vomit,” says Ariadne, coming up beside Arthur. 

Arthur turns to her, concerned. “Are you ill?” 

Ariadne snorts. “I am appalled by your disgusting cuteness.” 

“Oh,” says Arthur. 

Eames fiddles with the stack of paper cups. 

“So, Arthur,” says Ariadne. “Have a good break and all, yeah?”

Arthur frowns. “Why won’t I see you Thursday?”

Ariadne rolls her eyes. “Jesus. You need to start reading signs. We close for break tomorrow at two a.m., _dahling_.” 

“Hey!” Eames protests. 

“You close tomorrow,” Arthur repeats.

“Well, super early in the morning on Thursday, technically,” says Ariadne.

“This is my last shift,” Eames supplies. 

“Oh,” says Arthur. 

He feels small and stupid, all of a sudden, because somehow he’d been expecting that this semester would go on forever and he would always have these five minutes with Eames and/or Ariadne, and Professor Miles would continue to tease him about the names on his to-go cups for the rest of… the rest of… 

But the semester is basically over. 

Arthur has one more final left, and he doesn’t even get to go through it with hot chocolate. 

“Yeah, have a nice break,” he says, distractedly, to both Ariadne and Eames. 

“Cheers,” says Eames. 

 

Arthur drinks hot chocolate precisely once during Winter Break, and that’s only because his sister pushes the mug into his hand. 

He can barely force himself to finish it. 

Hot chocolate just isn’t as good when it doesn’t come with a side of Eames’s voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm departing for a brief birthday excursion, so the next chapter will be up Saturday or Sunday.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head, this very much began as "Arthur and Eames take my lit theory class." It wasn't until I started posting that I realized half the fic takes place before a single Shakespeare reference. (But we have now arrived at the lit theory/Shakespeare section.)

It’s Monday afternoon, the first day back from break. 

Arthur tugs open the door to the English classroom and—

“Darling! I’ve _missed_ you,” says Eames. 

It’s still early yet, even for the first day of class, so the only other two people in the room immediately stare at them. 

“Hi,” says Arthur, still standing next to the door. 

“No need to stand on ceremony, pet,” says Eames, and okay, if Arthur had maybe thought that the nicknames were just a Loft thing, he was obviously very, very wrong. Eames tugs out the chair next to him and gives him a significant look. 

Arthur has always known when to pick his battles with the universe, so he crosses the room and sits down. 

Universe/Eames: ten thousand. Arthur: zero. 

“I’m not sure what to do with you,” Eames says, seriously. 

“What?” Arthur says. 

“Outside of your native environment,” Eames says. 

“For the record, it’s really _your native_ environment, but okay,” Arthur replies. 

“I don’t know. I feel naked without any hot chocolate to give you,” says Eames. Which is scarily close to what Arthur had been thinking, what the hell. 

The other two students are still staring. (Fuck them. Arthur is not a reality show.) 

The professor comes in then and immediately starts handing out the syllabus, effectively shutting off conversation, even as the remaining ten or so members of the class slip in. 

“Welcome to English 347,” says the professor, whose surname, according to the syllabus, is Saito.

( _Surname_ , Arthur thinks, helplessly. He’s been corrupted, even though he hasn’t seen Eames in weeks.) 

“I’m assuming you all know by now that this is a Shakespeare course. This semester, we’ll be focusing on the sonnets, as well as _Venus and Adonis_ and _The Rape of Lucrece_ ,” intones Professor Saito. 

“What,” Eames yelps. 

Professor Saito turns, slowly, to Eames. “Is there a problem?”

“I was _specifically_ told that this course would be focusing on the _plays_. I am a _theatre_ major,” Eames complains. 

“The professor who normally teaches this course is on sabbatical, and I have been asked to step in. In my version of the course, we will focus on Shakespeare’s career as a _poet_. As a theatre student, I assume you have already read the collected plays, and thus are pleased at the idea of not being bored out of your mind as we cover material you already know well.” Saito smiles, but Arthur thinks he has never seen a less friendly smile. 

At the end of class, as everyone is packing up their things, Arthur says, “Just drop the class. You’ve got two weeks to switch into something else if you need the credit.” 

Eames shakes his head. “I need a Renaissance lit credit and this is the only one that fits into my schedule this semester, and my advisor _insists_ I need to get it done before senior year, so.” He shrugs. “It’s fine, darling. Thanks for your concern.” 

 

On Tuesday night, Arthur ventures to the Loft. 

“Arthur, darling,” Eames says. “We need to have a serious conversation.”

“Um,” Arthur says, alarmed. 

He wonders if he did something in Lit to make Eames upset. He wonders if Eames realized just how _weird_ the pet names would seem to everyone else in their class. He wonders if Eames wants to initiate some sort of informal restraining order that would keep Arthur away, excepting the Loft. 

Anything seems possible. 

“See, normally, I would start quoting the sonnets at you, but they’re all fucking depressing,” says Eames. 

“What?” says Arthur, who hasn’t actually done the reading yet. That’s why he’s here, after all. “Sonnets are love poems. Pretty much by definition.” 

“Right, but the first seventeen are all about him urging his young, virile male lover to have kids with, well, obviously someone else, and then there are all these groupings about absence and unfaithfulness, and Marxist theory is actually disturbingly relevant for a lot of them, and as far as I can tell from the Introduction, the Dark Lady poems are pretty much the most insulting ‘love’ poems possible. I mean, there are a respectable number of sexual innuendos and fucking Shakespeare puns on ‘ _will_ ,’ but, I just can’t. So if you were expecting me to quote the sonnets at you, sorry, no can do,” Eames finishes. 

“Okay,” says Arthur, because, well, while he hadn’t expected the sonnets _specifically_ , he would admit that Eames quoting _something_ at him didn’t seem to be entirely outside the realm of possibility. 

Eames turns to make his hot chocolate, and something inside of Arthur twists. 

“Wait,” he calls.

Eames turns back to him, frowning. 

“Um, surprise me,” Arthur says, very fast.

“What?”

“Like, with the kind of hot chocolate. You pick,” says Arthur. 

“Oh, _darling_ ,” Eames breathes, his eyes going wide. 

Mexican hot chocolate, for the record, is very, very good. 

 

On Wednesday before class, Arthur says, “I have a seminar during your shift tomorrow.”

“Arthur,” says Eames. “I am wounded, _deeply_ wounded, that you would not construct your class schedule around my Loft shifts.” 

“Sorry,” says Arthur.

“Don’t start going to other baristas for hot chocolate now,” Eames warns. “Unlike Shakespeare, I expect fidelity.” 

What the hell? 

Arthur thinks this at least five times an hour with Eames, but, seriously, what the _fuck_? 

Saito walks into the room before Arthur can think of an appropriate reply. 

 

Thursday seminar is _miserable_. They’re supposed to get a break in the middle of the two sections, but Arthur’s professor wants to talk to him about summer research options and it takes literally every ounce of Arthur’s not-inconsiderable will to refrain from whining, “I need my Eames fix. I am missing my Thursday afternoon Eames fix.” 

 

On Saturday morning, Eames isn’t there.

Arthur stands in the space between the door and the counter, staring at the two baristas, neither one of which is Eames. But one of them is Ariadne, so Arthur approaches the counter. 

“Is Eames okay?” he demands. 

And maybe his first question should have been, “Eames has been going on about fidelity all week so how the hell can he dare to abandon me without warning,” but if—

“He switched for Friday afternoons,” Ariadne says soothingly. “He’s got play practice now.” 

Arthur honest-to-God whimpers.

“I have class Friday afternoons,” he complains.

“Life’s a bitch,” Ariadne agrees. 

“This isn’t fair,” he says.

“That’s what I just said,” says Ariadne. “Can I get you anything?”

“ _No_ ,” says Arthur, and storms out of the coffeehouse. 

 

Eames is late to Lit on Monday, so Arthur doesn’t have a chance to talk to him before class, but after Saito dismisses them, he says, “You ditched me. On Saturday. You left me to _Ariadne_.” 

“I know,” says Eames. “I tried to tell you on Wednesday, but—”

But on Wednesday, Eames had been busy telling him he expected _fidelity_ , unlike Shakespeare. 

“You are not forgiven,” Arthur says, as they walk out of the classroom together. 

“I’m doing _Much Ado_ ,” says Eames. “I had to switch so I could make Saturday rehearsal.” 

“Fine,” says Arthur, and, because he’s not a total jerk, “What part?” 

“Benedick,” says Eames. 

“Congratulations,” Arthur says sincerely. “I’m sure you’ll be amazing.”

Eames squints at him. “Are you making fun of me?”

“What?” gasps Arthur. “No, I’m—seriously, Eames, I think you’ll be great. I mean, obviously I’ve never actually seen you act, but just, you know, how you read the sonnets in class and everything, I think—look, tell me when it is and I’ll _come_ , okay?” 

Arthur’s not sure if inviting himself to the play is crossing some sort of friendship line, but, well, they are friends, sort of, right? More than acquaintances? 

“Seriously?” Eames says.

“Do you really think I am incapable of being a nice person?” Arthur parries, a little offended by now.

“That’s not what I meant,” says Eames. “ _Darling_. I would be very happy if you came. Just imagine that I am saying all the lines to you.”

Arthur snorts. 

 

Somehow—and he doesn’t even know how this happens, but it does—Arthur ends up helping Eames memorize his lines during lulls on his Tuesday shift and before Lit on Mondays and Wednesdays. 

Eames is fucking brilliant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am quite certain I do not need to tell you all what fic to read if you DO want Arthur/Eames on reality TV.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who have mentioned poor Ariadne in the comments... my mid-April self definitely agreed with you.

On the third Thursday of the semester, Arthur finally manages to rush out during break before anyone can stop to chat with him about _anything_.

He runs all the way to the Loft. 

“Arthur,” says Eames, confused, when he bursts in. “Are you… playing hooky for hot chocolate?” 

“Fifteen minute seminar break,” Arthur says, breathing heavily. 

“And are you…?” Eames asked, squinting at Arthur’s heaving chest. In a medical way, that was. Not in a way that implied he was, you know, _looking_. 

“Absolutely fine. If I weren’t, I would definitely be sitting down,” Arthur assures him. 

Eames looks at the four people ahead of Arthur in line and asks, “Would you mind letting a poor soul who has run all the way from Carnegie jump ahead so he can get a hot chocolate before he has to rush back?”

Robert is one of the four people in line. He’s wearing Yves Saint Laurent today and Arthur kind of wants to kill him. A feeling that intensifies when Robert turns to the others and says, “Do it for true love.” 

The other three people clearly have no idea what to make of this assertion, but they minimize the glaring and permit Arthur to approach the counter. 

 

He’s even later the next Thursday, because Nash (Arthur really, really needs to stop being in the same major as this kid) corners him about something irrelevant—because everything is irrelevant at 2:30 on Thursdays when Arthur needs to get to Eames—so after a very patient two minutes of understanding nothing, Arthur announces, “Eames,” and rushes off. 

Eames is kind of a fucking miracle though, because Arthur’s hot chocolate is _ready_ when he arrives, breathless. It’s even labeled: “LOVELY BOY.” 

“Sonnet 126,” Arthur says. 

“Guilty as charged,” says Eames. “Get back to class.”

Arthur is halfway back to Carnegie before he realizes he never paid for the drink. 

 

Arthur is precisely on time this week, but he still arrives just as Eames sets a to-go cup on the counter clearly labeled, “TENDER CHURL.” 

“Sonnet 1, seriously?” Arthur says. 

“It was that or ‘world’s fresh ornament,’” Ariadne informs him. “We had this whole _discussion_ about it.” 

“That’s still Sonnet 1,” Arthur complains. 

“Sonnet 1 blows,” some kid in line agrees. 

Arthur looks at Eames, expecting a pun, but Eames only raises his eyebrows and winks. 

“On your way, my good sir,” says Eames. 

“I haven’t paid,” Arthur remembers to protest.

“I get a free drink every shift,” says Eames. “Anyway, this saves time.” 

“But,” says Arthur. 

“Oh my God, get out of my coffeehouse and back to class,” interrupts Ariadne. 

Arthur flees. 

 

Arthur now sees Eames four days a week, even if the two-minute interaction on Thursdays barely counts.

He finds himself looking for ways to increase the number to seven.

Eames every day.

That sounds good, doesn’t it? 

 

“Ariadne,” Arthur calls, rushing up behind her on the quad. 

She halts, turns, frowning into her scarf. 

“You have to stop Eames,” Arthur says quickly.

“Are we sure this is a real conversation? Because I’m not actually convinced you exist outside of Eames’s imagination,” says Ariadne. 

“I’m serious,” Arthur says plaintively. “We’re doing Sonnet 20 tomorrow.”

“That means literally nothing to me,” says Ariadne. 

“It’s—Eames is not _allowed_ ,” Arthur says. “You have to add it to the Community Guidelines. You’re a manager, you can do it.”

Ariadne narrows her eyes. “Why should I do this enormously big favor for you? Why should I abuse the power of my position in what we both know will be a futile attempt to stop Eames from quoting some poem I have never read?” 

“Ariadne,” Arthur says again, desperately, like repeating her name will give him some power—which, he realizes belatedly, is exactly what Eames does to him. “It’s… the phrase ‘she pricked thee out’ comes up. It’s a _deliberate_ dick joke. The _entire poem_ —you can’t let him—for the sake of public decency.” 

He’s gesticulating wildly, no doubt scaring passing freshman, and he’s not even looking at Ariadne any more, oh God, he has become that mad person who is screaming about puns to the sky as if that’s going to help, what has his life become—

And Ariadne, when he finally gets around to looking at her, is grinning. 

Traitor.

(Except, not really, because she’s Eames’s friend, but. Still.) 

“Sorry,” she says. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“A—what?” Arthur squawks. 

“As the manager of the place where it all began,” she says solemnly. “For the best Arthur-Eames sightings, come to the Loft, in whose free and inspired atmosphere Eames woos his Arthur with the skill only known to people who care about Shakespearian puns.” 

“I hate you,” says Arthur. “I literally hate you. Why are you even—we’re not _together_. I could stop coming, you know.”

Ariadne eyes him skeptically. “Right. Best of luck to you. Darling.” 

She’s still laughing as she walks away. 

 

“What are you doing for spring break?” Arthur asks. 

It’s a Wednesday, and they’re eating lunch together before Lit. It’s kind of a thing now. 

Eames shrugs. “Staying here. We’re doing all-day rehearsals both weekends, and it doesn’t make a lot of sense to go halfway across the country for just four days.” 

“You live… here? I mean, in the U.S.?” Arthur asks. It seems ridiculous that he doesn’t know this already, but whenever anybody asks Eames where he’s from, he readily responds, “London,” so what was Arthur supposed to think? 

“My mum and I moved when I was fourteen,” Eames says. “So, sure. New York City, only place worth living outside of London.”

Arthur frowns, because Chicago is a respectable city, thank you very much. (Even though the winters are cold as fuck.) 

“That must have been hard. Moving, as a teenager,” Arthur says. 

Eames shrugs. “I joined the football team.”

“Like, _football_ , or do you mean—?”

“Darling, you don’t seriously think that after seven years I still don’t know the difference between American football and proper football?” Eames leans back in his chair. 

“So, you played American football,” Arthur says.

Eames nods. 

And Arthur can see it, kind of, because Eames is _built_ like a football player, but, for Christ’s sake, he calls Arthur _sugar plum_. 

“So… when did you get into acting?” he asks, trying to be subtle. 

Eames laughs anyway. “My sophomore year, after football season. Quit the team after that, obviously,” he adds. “It was too hard to try to do both the play and football in the fall.” 

Arthur nods. 

Later that night, he emails his mom. He’s decided to stay at school for break after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if Shakespeare is still so revered by the Academy in spite of the sexual innuendos or because of them.  
> Also, happy Memorial Day to my U.S. readers! Hope you're having a lovely holiday.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to link to [Sonnet 20](http://www.shakespeare-online.com/sonnets/20.html) in the last chapter—thanks to chasingriver for reminding me! Don't let anybody tell you fic can't introduce you to HIGH CULTURE. 
> 
> Aranel, Fischer Tower’s corrupt origins are all thanks to you. Thanks for letting me tag along (all over the world). I trust that you'll always tell me when I'm wrong.

Despite what Arthur thinks about the two of them _not being your fucking reality show, mind your own business_ , Arthur kind of wishes someone were filming when he tells Eames he’s staying for break, just so he could re-watch Eames’s look of surprise and joy and gratitude. 

“Darling,” he says happily. “You are my favorite.”

( _Favourite_ , because Eames insists on using British spelling in all of his Lit essays, “for authenticity.”)

“Now I’m definitely going home,” says Ariadne. 

 

At four o’clock in the morning on the first night of spring break, the fire alarm goes off. 

Arthur stares at the flashing light in his room for a moment, his sleep-foggy brain unable to make the connection between the persistent shrieks of the alarm and anything resembling the real world. Responding properly to the fire alarm first requires that one acknowledge the noise as belonging to the fire alarm. 

After another beat, Arthur’s brain kicks into gear and he throws off his blankets. His body, shocked from being so abruptly awoken from a deep sleep, pumps adrenaline through his veins, and he’s in the hallway, coat in hand, in a matter of moments. 

There are only a handful of students still in the dorm, mostly limited to those who had obligations through Friday evening and thus had booked Saturday flights instead. 

The cold sends another shock through Arthur’s system, the wind mercilessly cutting through his pajama pants. 

He trudges through the snow outside the dorm toward the meeting point in the middle of the quad, where an RA is standing, cell phone held to one ear, a clipboard in the other hand. 

“If this is because someone still doesn’t know how to use the microwave, I will not be held responsible for my actions,” Arthur informs the RA. 

Into the cell phone, the RA says, “Thanks so much. We’ll all be in the west courtyard.” 

Arthur folds his arms as the RA hangs up. He’s shaking a little, half from the cold, half from the adrenaline that’s making him jittery and distracting him from how tired he is. 

A small crowd of people has gathered around the RA at this point, and Arthur notices that the dorm across from theirs has been evacuated as well. 

Which means that they are assaulted by the still-blaring fire alarms from _two_ directions. 

“Sorry about this, everyone,” says the RA. “The fire department’s coming out to take a look. They’re going to have to do a full walkthrough, so it’s going to be at least an hour, I’m sorry.” 

“An _hour_?” shrieks one girl. She’s not even in a full coat, just a university sweatshirt, and while her feet are tucked into Ugg boots, her cheeks and nose are already red. “We can’t stay out here for an hour. We’re going to freeze.” 

“I’m sorry,” the RA repeats, then grabs her ponytail in her clipboard-free hand and displays the frozen ends for the crowd to see. “I took a shower an hour ago and now my hair’s frozen, okay? I’m not happy about this, either. But we need to follow protocol.” 

“Fuck protocol, it’s probably just someone making popcorn,” complains a boy Arthur recognizes from one of the French classes he took freshman year. 

“You _cannot_ go back in,” the RA says, looking panicked at the idea of having a full-on revolt on her hands. “It sucks, but we really, really have to wait. I’m going to try to call one of the RAs in another dorm to see if they’ll let us in… ” 

Someone places their hands on Arthur’s hips and suddenly Eames’s voice is in his ear, murmuring, “What do you say we wait somewhere else, darling?” 

Arthur jumps and spins around, practically crashing into Eames, who is close, so close, too close (never too close), because Eames had been _touching_ him and it’s four in the morning and freezing cold and Arthur is really not equipped to deal with this right now. 

“Where?” he demands, not bothering with a ‘hello’ or even ‘could you possibly have greeted me in some way that did not involve unanticipated physical contact?’ 

Eames pulls out a set of keys from his sweatshirt pocket, jangling them obnoxiously in front of Arthur’s face. 

“Fast, before we freeze,” Eames says, and suddenly they’re running away from the huddled mass of miserable exiles still crowded around the RA, running across the dark quad, past another set of dorms, toward the center of campus. Arthur’s heart rate, having never really settled from his abrupt awakening and equally rude introduction to the cold, continues to climb. 

“Where are we going?” Arthur asks, as well as he can, what with all the running. 

“Have you ever been up Fischer Tower?” Eames asks, and sure enough, he cuts across another quad, heading directly for the enormous clock tower. 

“No,” says Arthur. “My group skipped it during Orientation because our tour guide wanted to make a statement about how corrupt the alumni donation system is.” 

Eames laughs and sprints the last few steps to the base of the tower. He pulls out the keys again, unerringly slotting the correct one into the lock. 

“What if there’s an alarm?” Arthur asks, breathless. “Why do you have the keys, anyway?”

Eames waggles his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“I just want to know – are we going to get in trouble here?” 

Eames pushes Arthur inside and shuts the door behind them. 

It’s dark, very dark. The neon red of the exit sign doesn’t do much to illuminate the entryway. His heavy breathing seems louder amidst the blackness. 

“It’s four-thirty in the morning over spring break. No one is here. I have these keys… legally. Sweetheart, I’m never going to get you into anything you can’t handle.” 

Arthur swallows at this, but before he can think of anything to say, Eames tugs his elbow, directing him toward the stairway, and says, “Now _run_!” 

They run. 

It’s at least seven flights of stairs and after the third Arthur can sense that this is a fucking terrible idea but it’s dark and the middle of the night and everything still feels that odd mix of not-real and hyper-real and Eames is next to him and they’re bumping into each other, shoulders and arms and knees, grabbing at each other when they start to fall, running up and up and up. 

Finally—finally—they reach the top and Eames shoves open the door, pushing them onto a glassed-in room. 

“All the view, none of the cold,” Eames announces with the sweep of an arm. 

Arthur nods. His heart is racing. 

His heart is _racing_. 

_Calm down_ , he tells himself. 

On shaking legs, he walks to the edge of the room, right up to one of the huge windows, and sits down, pretending to admire the view. 

“I wonder what it was,” Arthur says, to distract himself. “What set off the alarm.” 

“Wasn’t me, for once,” says Eames cheerfully, plopping down on the floor next to Arthur. “Popcorn is the usual culprit. Occasionally cookies.” 

“There should be a rule that if you set off the fire alarm because you don’t know how to use an oven, you have to give the non-burned cookies to the people on your floor,” says Arthur. He’s speaking more slowly than usual, still trying to regulate his breathing. 

“And if the oven’s not the issue?” Eames inquires, nudging Arthur’s leg with his knee.

Arthur shrugs. “I want to be compensated for being kicked out in the middle of the night.”

“But now you get to spend the night with me,” says Eames. “So really, you’re better off than you were before.” 

Arthur turns his head, just enough to roll his eyes at Eames. 

Also, his heart very much disagrees with any assessment that evaluates his present state as better than when he was peacefully sleeping in his heated dorm room. 

Arthur sighs. It’s been long enough that he actually needs to acquire data about the situation. 

“Are you wearing your watch?” he asks Eames. 

Eames nods, pulling up the sleeve of his sweatshirt to reveal a large watch, which thankfully has a second hand. 

“May I borrow it?” Arthur asks. 

Eames pulls off the watch and passes it to Arthur, who notes the worn but expensive feel of the leather strap. 

Arthur sighs again, because he hates doing this in front of people who aren’t his mother. Ignoring Eames’s curious stare, he settles the watch in one palm, presses two fingers against his pulse point, and begins to count. 

“Shit,” says Eames, but Arthur shakes his head at him, not wanting to lose track of the count. 

Which is too high. 

Not ‘go to the hospital immediately’ high, just a regular ‘episode’ high, but that’s high enough. His heart rate is too high and it’s the middle of the night and he’s with Eames and everything about this situation is about a thousand degrees away from ideal. 

When he’s done, he passes the watch back to Eames. 

“I’m so sorry, Arthur, I didn’t even think about…” Eames starts. 

“It’s fine,” says Arthur automatically.

“It’s _not_ ,” says Eames. 

“You don’t need to be _careful_ with me,” snaps Arthur, which is always what he does when he’s feeling vulnerable. (This is not helping him lower his heart rate.) “It’s just that there was the fire alarm, and then the cold, and then we ran here, and all the stairs, and I wasn’t ready. Normally when I’m going to run, I do a proper warm-up and it’s fine. It’s just—everything was against me just now. And I was the stupid one by not taking the stairs slower.” 

“I don’t mind being careful,” says Eames. “I want to be careful with you. That’s not a bad thing, darling”—and Arthur relaxes at the endearment, because it brings them a little closer to who they are in class or at the Loft, and a little further away from the disaster that is ‘Arthur’s heart is freaking out at half-past four in the morning’—“It doesn’t mean I think you’re weak. It means I don’t want to be the idiot who literally tells you to endanger your health.”

“Uh, okay,” says Arthur, whose heart is beating way too fast for him to process any of that, and not in a ‘the super hot boy who makes me hot chocolate is being sexily nice right now’ sort of way. 

“Is there anything you need me to do?” Eames asks. 

“Not really,” says Arthur. “I just need to sit for a minute.”

“We can do that,” says Eames.

“And by ‘a minute,’ I mean probably an hour,” Arthur admits. 

“I am always up for spending another hour with you, pet,” says Eames. 

Arthur closes his eyes, trying to push away the lightheadedness that comes with his episodes. Beside him, Eames is silent.

After a moment, Arthur says, “You can talk, you know.”

“What would you like me to talk about?” asks Eames. 

At any other time, Arthur would have been thrilled at the opportunity to, it seems, _ask Eames anything_ , but his head is too filled with his too-rapid heartbeat to be useful. 

“Have you ever been to Paris?” Arthur asks, because London is so much closer to Paris than Chicago is. 

“A few times,” says Eames. “It’s been a while though.”

“Tell me about Paris,” Arthur says. “I’ve never been.” 

“Your wish is my command,” Eames replies. 

And if they fall into each other, a little, over the next hour, and if Arthur’s head comes to rest on Eames’s shoulder, and if Arthur doesn’t mention, for a while, the skipped heartbeats that signal his heart rate is about to go back to normal—what of it? 

 

So Arthur may or may not spend basically every moment of spring break with Eames. A lot of the time, they’re not even talking, just getting homework done or listening to music or both. On Wednesday, Arthur tries not to squirm when Eames informs him that he’s created a _playlist_ for them. 

Also, all of this hanging out has meant that Eames has been to Arthur’s room and Arthur has been to Eames’s. Multiple times. 

Eames’s room is kind of a mess, but definitely not more of a mess than anybody else’s. It’s like, standard college mess, with an above-average ridiculous amount of books. Playbills and flyers from every student production Eames has ever been in are taped to the walls, which Arthur finds kind of adorable. 

(Okay, really, really adorable. No ‘kind of.’) 

Arthur was nervous about having Eames in his room, but it wasn’t like it was his room in his _house_ , for Christ’s sake, it wasn’t like they were listening to Eames’s Arthur-and-Eames playlist in his childhood bedroom or anything, it was just a dorm room and Arthur’s architecture posters. 

He discovers that they both do a lot of sketching, him for design, Eames for his fine arts minor, which he’s splitting between drawing and painting. When they aren’t really working, Arthur spends a lot of time doodling Penrose steps and Möbius strips in his moleskine. 

On the last day of break, Arthur finds himself becoming irrationally jealous that, the next day, he’ll have to go back to _sharing_ Eames with the rest of the world, which clearly doesn’t deserve him. 

Because—Arthur knows what Eames looks like to the rest of the world, and that the rest of the world doesn’t expect Eames to be _clever_ the way he is, or _kind_ , and Eames is honestly the kindest person Arthur has ever met, even though it’s hidden under layers of deflection and dirty puns and sexy tattoos. Plus, Eames _listens_ well. 

Oh, he can talk for hours, definitely, and Arthur likes to let him, enjoys leaning back in his chair and just watching Eames be, and who knew just looking at another person being so bloody ( _thanks, Eames_ ) enthusiastic could be so damn compelling? 

But he listens, too. And not just the bullshit listening some people do, where they can’t wait to jump in with “Oh, that happened me, too, and—” but actual, honest-to-God listening. 

Arthur’s never been much of a talker, but something about the sincerity in Eames’s eyes keeps compelling him into speech.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not actually have an Arthur/Eames playlist. If you do, rec me your favorite song!


	8. Chapter 8

“What are the Lofty Superlatives?” Arthur asks on Tuesday night, nodding his head at the sign.

Ariadne appears, Yusuf at her side. 

“ _Now_ you read the signs?” she asks, appalled. 

“You kept complaining, so…” Arthur retorts. 

“It’s to keep up everyone’s spirits after break and during the second round of midterms,” Eames explains. “It’s just like high school superlatives, except the categories are not exactly yearbook-approved—more ‘most likely to shag on the tables after hours’ than ‘most likely to succeed’—and you can only vote for Loft people. Ballots are—”

“Arthur can’t vote,” Ariadne says. 

“What?” say Arthur, Eames, and Yusuf in unison. 

“He’s biased,” says Ariadne. 

“Ari,” says Eames. “That is the point of superlatives. All of the baristas are voting, and God knows we’re biased.” 

“Arthur is not allowed to vote,” Ariadne insists, crossing her arms and glaring at them. “Arthur is not to vote, or help with the counting, or even _see the ballot_.” 

Arthur thinks this is all a little over-the-top, but he shrugs. He didn’t even vote for high school superlatives. “It’s fine.” 

“This is not democratic,” Eames complains. “This is America, Ari. Democracy. No taxes without representation.” 

“You can vote twice,” Ariadne says. 

“Hey now,” Yusuf complains. 

“Fine,” says Ariadne. “In the eyes of the law of the Loft, Arthur is considered a _feme covert_ and thus his preferences will be expressed by Eames’s vote, so ruled.” 

“Nobody here is pre-law,” Yusuf says. 

“And I want you to know that was a _gross simplification_ of the _disgusting_ treatment of women in the legal system through the _feme covert_ designation,” Ariadne says. 

Yusuf holds up his hands in defeat. 

“Why don’t you let Ari explain it all to you? Over coffee?” Eames suggests helpfully. Ariadne tugs Yusuf away toward the seating area. 

“I am… confused,” says Arthur, but he accepts the mug of hot chocolate Eames pushes toward him. Then: “This is _white_ hot chocolate!” 

“You gave up your rights to hot chocolate decision-making literally months ago,” Eames says gravely. 

 

Arthur has had _five_ different people call Eames his boyfriend this week. 

So what if he and Eames needed to study for the Shakespeare midterm and the only convenient space-time setup involved Arthur walking Eames to and from rehearsal one night? 

So what if Eames had his hot chocolate ready for him on Thursday? And, okay, the hot chocolate bestowal may also have been accompanied by a hair ruffle, but Arthur had just learned he’d gotten an A on this big project and what’s a little hair-ruffling between friends? 

So _what_ if, during their Monday lunch, Eames kept sticking his fork in Arthur’s stir-fry for the broccoli? Because Arthur wasn’t going to eat the broccoli anyway, so this was just reducing food waste. 

So _what_. 

But Eames is—painfully—very much _not_ Arthur’s boyfriend. 

Arthur has given on up on denial. Yes, he has a crush on Eames. Yes, he _likes_ Eames, _in that way_. Yes, he wants to kiss Eames. Yes, he wants to _touch_ Eames, and fuck, it’s warmer now and he sometimes catches Eames in t-shirts and Eames has tattoos and the sexiest collarbones Arthur has ever seen. Arthur wants _everything_. 

But. For all of Eames’s incessant flirting and ridiculous puns, he’s never… he’s never serious about any of it. And Arthur knows Eames can be serious. 

Arthur knows better than to take Eames’s flirting as anything other than fun between friends. It’s just—it’s just how they are. And that’s okay. It’s nice, having a best friend again. Arthur doesn’t want to wreck that, not by making the mistake of calling Eames’s bluff. 

Nope, not happening. 

Still, the incessant insinuations that Eames is his boyfriend are pretty draining, so Arthur is in a bit of a bad mood when he walks into the Loft on Tuesday night. 

 

There’s a bright yellow butcher paper sign on the wall. 

LOFTY SUPERLATIVES is the header. 

Arthur wonders if he’s allowed to read the results, but Ariadne never mentioned that he wasn’t, so he starts scanning the list. 

Most of them are pretty basic—most likely to change the playlist without proper authorization, most likely to give people extra espresso shots for free, most likely to try to bribe professors for answers with pastries. 

A surprising number of them have to do with customers, clearly written with the regulars in mind: most likely to stay until closing, mostly likely to take up an entire table, most likely to complain about the music, and so forth. 

Arthur recognizes some of the winners’ names, but not all. Absently, he registers that the song playing is one Eames introduced him to, one that had been on his Arthur-and-Eames playlist. 

Arthur’s eyes travel further down the poster. 

A few of the superlatives were obviously written for specific people: most likely to complain about the bloody cold and sodding midterms is Eames; most likely to suggest updates to the Community Guidelines in light of how the Loft is still an inherently patriarchal space is Ariadne. 

Biggest flirt, is, _huh_. Not Eames. 

_Do I go to the same coffee shop as these people?_ Arthur wonders. Clearly, American voters are not to be trusted. 

And then he reaches the bottom of the list. 

BEST COUPLE: EAMES x ARTHUR. 

Arthur stares. His heart is pounding. He feels lightheaded. 

(Not, you know, in a way that needs to be documented for his cardiologist, but enough.)

What the fuck? 

Okay, Arthur can take a joke, he does actually have a sense of humor, but… Ariadne knows they aren’t actually together. Ariadne is Eames’s best friend, of course she knows they’re not together. So what…? 

The next song starts, and it, too, is from the Arthur-and-Eames playlist, and Arthur realizes that he can hear the song far too well, which means that everybody else is… not talking. Is watching. 

Until suddenly, somebody is talking, very quickly. 

“Arthur—” and of course it’s Eames, so Arthur turns, and instinctively accepts the hot chocolate thrust into his hands, “IhaveemergencydressrehearsalsoImadeyourhotchocolateseeyouinLit.”

And then Eames is gone. 

Slowly, the volume level goes back to normal. 

Arthur is still frozen to the spot next to the butcher paper, clutching the warm cup, when Ariadne approaches, and Arthur remembers how to move. To speak. To be angry. 

“What the hell?” he says. 

“Eames wasn’t supposed to have emergency dress rehearsal,” says Ariadne, as if that’s a real answer. “It wasn’t part of the plan.” 

“The plan,” Arthur repeats. 

“Didn’t you think I was oddly specific about your total non-involvement in the superlatives? Wasn’t it weird that Eames didn’t just sneak you a ballot?” 

Arthur is silent, because, _no_ , he hadn’t thought about any of that. 

“Look at your cup,” she says. 

His to-go cup is… _covered_ with names. 

There are the usuals, like ‘darling’ and ‘babe’ and ‘sweetheart.’ 

There are the Shakespearian, no big deal, but—Arthur’s breath hitches when he catches a new one.

“Fair friend,” he reads. 

“Sonnet 104. Eames told me,” Ariadne says. 

But Arthur is already moving on from this revelation, because in between ‘sugar plum’ and ‘pumpkin’ is _Arthur_. Over and over again. 

ARTHURARTHURARTHUR. 

“Ari,” Arthur says. “What do I _do_? What does this even… what is he…he doesn’t…?” 

“I am going to pretend like those were all complete thoughts,” says Ariadne. “Clearly you are being stupid about this, so you need to listen to me very, very carefully.” 

Arthur swallows and nods, meeting her gaze, which is—somehow—fiercer than usual. 

“Eames is my _best friend_ , and so help me God, if you hurt him, you will regret it until the end of your days.” 

“I don’t want to hurt Eames,” Arthur says, which is true. “I just don’t… understand…?” 

“Eames made a _playlist_ for you,” Ariadne says. “He is basically a twelve-year-old where you are concerned.”

Arthur remembers all the time he spent feeling like a five-year-old in the early days of their acquaintance and thinks, hysterically, that a seven-year-age gap is really asking too much. He begins to laugh a bit desperately. 

“Yes, this is very funny, you’ve been pining for each other for months now, do something, I’m sick of listening to him moan about how cute you are when you wear your glasses, or how sexy he thinks it is when you write your lists in that moleskine of yours—”

“It’s a… I write lists, that’s not… sexy, really?” Arthur stumbles, still feeling completely out of his depth. 

“Have I mentioned he is _twelve_ yet?” Ari says. “Go now.” 

“Go?” Arthur repeats.

“Yes. I am kicking you and your to-go cup and your bewildered lovesick face out of this place. The Loft is reserved for those whose love is _either_ tragically unrequited or knowingly reciprocal. I am having no more of this unnecessary pining bullshit.” 

Arthur walks back to his dorm room, occasionally sipping at the hot chocolate, which, yes, is still pretty good. 

He’ll talk to Eames in Lit tomorrow. He could call, but—he doesn’t want to interrupt Emergency Dress Rehearsal. That sounded serious. 

 

On Wednesday morning, he wakes up to an email from Saito announcing that class is cancelled. On top of that, Eames texts to say he can’t make their lunch because set crew is hopelessly incompetent and they need everyone on deck so they can open Thursday night without the staircase collapsing beneath them in Act Two. 

_Shit_ , Arthur thinks. _Thursday break it is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when I write during the school year. My law professor should be proud. (She probably wouldn’t be.) A little bit about [coverture](http://www.library.hbs.edu/hc/wes/collections/women_law/).


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, this is it! Thank you again to castillon02 for being a marvelous beta, and also a huge thank you to my LOVELY READERS for all of the comments thus far! They made my morning/afternoon/evening/middle of the night why I am not asleep.

Like every other Thursday, Arthur rushes to the Loft during seminar break. 

Unlike every other Thursday, this time when he enters the coffeehouse, he’s already clutching a to-go cup. This particular to-go cup has his name written on it about a dozen times, not to mention all the other things Eames has managed to call him over the seven months of their acquaintance. 

He ignores the three people in line and walks straight up to the counter, setting the cup down firmly. It’s empty, so the action makes a hollow, papery sound, which isn’t very impressive, but—anyway. 

Eames is looking at him. Eames is—Eames is looking at him, a little hopeful and a little scared and a little confused. 

“I can’t talk to you properly when you’re on the other side of the counter,” Arthur says. 

Dumbly, Eames walks around the counter to stand in front of Arthur. They’re really—they’re really almost exactly the same height. Arthur doesn’t know why he hasn’t noticed that before. 

“Darling?” Eames prompts, softly, after a moment. 

“I can’t talk to you when you’re on the other side of the counter. Because, you know, you’re working and capitalism and Marxist criticism,” says Arthur, in a single breath. 

“I mean, de Certeau would definitely approve of us having this conversation with the counter between us, but, continue,” says Eames. 

“I like the cup,” Arthur blurts. 

Eames smiles, just a little. “I’m glad. I’d hoped you’d like it.” 

“I did.” 

Eames nods. 

“I really like the cup,” says Arthur. “I like… ‘darling.’ And ‘pumpkin.’” 

Eames nods again. “And… ‘fair friend?’” he asks, softly.

It’s Arthur’s turn to nod.

“And… ‘love?’”

Arthur is not actually a five-year-old and so he doesn’t look away. He meets Eames’s gaze steadily and nods. 

He is, however, holding his breath, but he has something to say, so, _breathe_ , okay: “I’m… pretty set on mutual fidelity.” 

“I can work with that,” Eames says, and he’s grinning now, and Arthur _did that_ , and Eames’s shirt is as atrocious as ever but Eames wouldn’t be Eames if he dressed nicely, clearly, so—

Arthur tugs Eames toward him and kisses him. 

It’s very brief and absolutely chaste but somehow they are both breathless when it ends, and Eames has a hand on Arthur’s cheek and Arthur is still clutching Eames’s terrible, terrible shirt and—

—and the entire population of the Loft is fucking _applauding_ , like that is an appropriate response.

(Which, okay, yes, maybe it is.)

 

“You don’t have to watch again tonight,” says Eames.

“Of course I’m going to watch,” says Arthur, offended. “You were amazing.”

“Also, you’re jealous of Alice,” says Eames, referring to his co-star.

“Maybe,” Arthur mumbles into Eames’s shoulder.

They’re sitting on Eames’s bed, which is where they’ve been for the past hour. 

The night before, Arthur realized that the problem with declaring one’s affection for an actor mere hours prior to opening night was that it would then be impossible to spend more than five minutes with said actor on said night of said momentous occasion. These five minutes were specifically broken down into the two minutes when Arthur snuck backstage to wish Eames good luck, and then three minutes of frenzied congratulations after the fact, until the clamors of Eames’s cast mates had proven too much. Hence the scheduled Friday morning rendezvous, before Arthur’s class and Eames’s shift. 

“Adorable,” says Eames, and tugs Arthur closer.

“Is that what you’re going to do, after graduation?” Arthur asks.

“Call you adorable and snog you senseless?” 

“Act,” says Arthur.

Eames laughs. “It’s just a lark, isn’t it? Not a practical plan.”

“You’re not supposed to be practical,” says Arthur.

“Oh?”

“No,” Arthur insists. “You’re supposed to come up with absurd plans that would never work out if anybody else were doing them, but because it’s _you_ , it all works out perfectly and nobody’s ever sure exactly how you did it—but it’s _you_ , and you can pull off anything.”

Eames is quiet for a minute. “That’s what you think?”

“That’s what I think,” says Arthur. “And I’m a very practical person ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“Well, then,” says Eames lightly. “If the ever-practical Arthur thinks it possible… You really think I’m good enough?”

Arthur twists a bit so he can look straight at Eames. “Yes. God, you were—beyond brilliant. You’re going to take over New York. Or London. Both.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I’ve been teaching you proper English, then,” Eames says slyly. 

“Why _did_ you do that, anyway?” Arthur asks, accepting the change in topic. 

“Darling, it astounds me that you can be so very clever about everything but this,” says Eames. “I thought for sure you’d figure it out when I kept teaching you all the sex words. I was trying to find out if you were into guys.” 

“But that was months ago,” Arthur protests. “I thought you were just—I didn’t think you were serious.”

“I wasn’t, at first—at least not in a way I could articulate, because at first you were just this untouchable, incredibly fit guy with an inexplicable love of hot chocolate—you were like the… the word I knew but couldn’t remember, you know? I knew there was _something_ , immediately, but I couldn’t explain what or why and I kept bugging you so maybe I could figure it out,” says Eames. 

“When did you figure it out?” Arthur asks. 

“Once I realized that you were showing up to all of my shifts and no one else’s. And I wanted it to stay that way.” 

“Also months ago,” Arthur points out. 

“At that point…I didn’t want you to think I was serious. Because you were… I don’t know, I hadn’t been serious for too long, and I wasn’t sure you’d believe me, and I didn’t know how to do it. And I didn’t want you to break my heart,” Eames admits. 

“I was _showing up to all your shifts_. How could I have been more obvious? Also, I am not the heartbreaker of this pair,” says Arthur. 

“With your impeccable fashion sense and mastery of the French language? Please. You break a dozen hearts a day, you just don’t realize it,” Eames says. 

“Well, I’m not breaking _yours_ ,” says Arthur. “Anyway. You’re serious _now_.”

(Arthur knows this is true, because Eames texted him pet names in between every scene, despite the fact that said texting is very much not allowed and his stage managers are going to murder them both.) 

“Let me prove it to you some more, darling,” says Eames. And kisses him.


End file.
